


When The Reckoning Arrives

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Branding, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hell, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanart, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: Crowley gets into trouble after rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille. And it's a lot worse than a rude note.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 108
Collections: Good  but with mature themes, My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	When The Reckoning Arrives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by @WhiteleyFoster's [amazing artwork](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the). I'm super excited to get to write a fic based on her artwork - it was WhiteleyFoster's artwork that first got me into _Repossession,_ which got me into fanfic, which got me here!

Crowley had only been half lying when he said that his lot “did not send rude notes”. Half lying, because they certainly _did_ send rude notes. Half truthful, because the notes were entirely secondary to the actual consequences of being found to have rescued an angel.

The note arrived, as he expected, the next morning. Crowley awoke to the mingled odors of mildew and brimstone, wrinkled his nose, and slinked over to find the letter sitting atop his never-used wardrobe. The piece of parchment, stained with mold and singed at the edges, was a summons. He was to meet with Duke Hastur no later than sundown that night. 

All hellish summons ended with an implicit _or else_. Crowley knew he had two options: saunter directly to his own doom, or delay the inevitable by making things harder on the Duke - and then, inevitably, on himself.

Hastur had his number, that much was clear. As dense as the Duke was - and he would rival Aziraphale’s favorite puddings in that regard - he had, somehow, worked it out. After centuries of cluelessness, and a few more of nascent suspicion, it seemed that Hastur was finally closing in. 

For a while, Crowley had managed to hold him off. A convincing story here, a missed meeting there, and it was good. Crowley survived. The Arrangement survived.

And so did the angel.

Then, sometime around the 1840s, Hastur had caught a scent. He was circling, Crowley knew, spiraling closer to Aziraphale like a vulture with death in its eyes. If he found what he was looking for - something that would put Aziraphale in Hell’s dangerous sights - it would all be over.

Crowley cursed and tossed the note out his window, where it would join the rest of the rotting garbage on the streets. He paced the length of his London bedroom, dragging a hand through his messy curls as he worked out what to do.

***

Hastur’s miserable office was dark, lit only by a sputtering candle that emitted greasy smoke. Crowley coughed.

“Crowley,” Hastur sneered. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

Crowley looked around the disgusting office, wrinkling his nose. “Might as well get this over with.”

“Eager, isn’t he?” Crowley’s head snapped toward the voice and he saw Ligur emerge from the shadows. 

_Figures_ , Crowley thought sourly. Never saw the two Dukes far from each other. But Ligur was far more cunning, and cruel, than Hastur. His presence did nothing to quiet the sick terror roiling in Crowley’s gut.

“Have a seat.” Hastur gestured to a rickety wooden chair near where Crowley stood.

“Appreciate the hospitality,” Crowley said, “but I’d rather stand.”

“The Duke said sit.” Ligur was somehow close enough to snarl directly into Crowley’s ear from behind him, then place a heavy hand on Crowley’s shoulder, shoving him down into the chair.

“Alright, alright,” Crowley grumbled. “What’s this about, then?”

“Head office isn’t very happy with you,” Hastur said. “Seems you’ve gone and done some kind of _good deed_.”

“Rescued an angel,” Ligur supplied, disgust in his voice.

“And not just any angel,” Hastur continued. Crowley’s insides twisted sharply.

_He knows._

_They know._

“Been running around with that principality a lot, have you?” Ligur’s tone was taunting. “Not very becoming, for a demon.”

“Hey now,” Crowley said, trying to keep his voice light. “Just because you’re not privy to the workings of my various schemes, doesn’t mean they’re not suitably evil. Incredibly evil, as a matter of fact. Which you’ll see once my second stage goes into action.” Amidst his distracting chatter, Crowley started to rise from his seat. “Come to think of it, I should probably be getting back to-”

Hastur stopped Crowley with a solid backhand to the face, which sent him back down into the wooden chair. “Shut up,” he snapped. Then, gesturing to Ligur, “Tie him up.”

Crowley was too stunned to struggle as Ligur wrapped him in coarse rope, securing him firmly to the rickety chair. As he gained his senses back, he writhed and twisted, hoping to slither out of the bonds - but some binding curse was woven in with the rope, keeping him from shifting to his snake form.

“Come on, fellows,” Crowley cooed, knowing his strength was always in his sweet talk, and never in fighting. He was a tempter, after all. “There’s no need for any of this-”

Ligur, still standing behind him, grabbed Crowley by his long hair - blasted fashion of the day - and yanked, forcing Crowley’s gaze toward Hastur. The sallow, maggot-fleshed Duke had his back to Crowley, fussing with something.

“No more talking,” Ligur grunted.

“Not gonna talk your way out of this one,” Hastur said, turning around. Crowley’s eyes fell on the implement in his hand, and went wide as his fear jumped to a new magnitude.

Hastur held a branding iron, in the shape of a Leviathan Cross - which was fitting, since the red-hot end was not only glowing with heat, but reeking of sulfur. That was no ordinary branding iron. It was hellforged metal, heated in brimstone.

It would pierce right through Crowley’s corporation into his true form.

Despite himself, he couldn’t keep the wobble of fear from his voice. “Bit much for a first offense, don’t you think?”

“Nah,” Hastur said, twirling the handle of the iron and sending acrid sparks everywhere. 

“Thing is,” came Ligur’s voice from somewhere behind Crowley, “first offense, that’s the one to take most seriously. Make it _unpleasant_ enough, won’t happen again.”

“Nip it in the bud,” Hastur continued gleefully. Crowley had the distinct impression that Hastur had never seen a new spring bud that promised to become a bright flower, didn’t have the slightest idea what that expression meant. Most likely he was just repeating something he’d heard in connection with Crowley’s upcoming ‘reprimand.’

No wonder he sounded so thrilled.

“Not so eager now, are you?” Hastur nodded to Ligur and Crowley felt rough hands on him, ripping at his shirt, yanking it open to reveal his bare shoulder. 

“Hastur, old friend, come on, no, don’t, let’s talk.” Crowley found himself babbling in desperation as Hastur advanced on him with the iron. If anything was _unbecoming_ , it was the way Crowley’s serpentine faculties fled him in the face of this torture. 

Any concerns about his pride or dignity, however, were obliterated when Hastur pressed the iron against Crowley’s shoulder, blasting through his entire being with blinding pain.

Crowley howled as the iron seared into him. Hastur’s dry laughter rang in his ears. 

It wasn’t so bad against the flesh of his corporation. It was only muscles and nerves, after all; just cells going dead under the supernaturally heated metal. But Hastur held it in place until it burned through to his true form.

Against his true form, the hellfire brand was beyond excruciating. Crowley could no longer hear Hastur, could no longer feel the chair or the ropes. He only knew the agony of the brand. It was enough to make him wish for death, for some final release. How lovely the guillotine seemed, how lucky the humans were, to have such a clean exit from the suffering of their bodies.

Hastur twisted the brand, driving it deeper into Crowley’s essence. Crowley wailed, thrashing in his bonds. His mind felt shattered by the pain, flickering between unrelated fragments of consciousness. He was briefly aware of his own feet kicking against the hard floor, the wooden chair legs shrieking on the stone as he tried to escape.

The stench of brimstone and charred flesh stung in his nostrils, and he thought of witch burnings, of soldiers weeping for their mothers, of great libraries up in flames. Of the things one could endure, and the things one couldn’t. 

It would scar, he knew, scar terribly. Not only on his corporation, which was a mere afterthought by now, but his _self_ would be marred. Forever. 

An insane thought occurred to him, then.

_He’ll see. He’ll know._

If Aziraphale ever saw Crowley in his true form, bared and intimate, he would -

_But he won’t. It’ll never happen._

Not now. Not after Hastur, not with this threat hanging over them, not after this, not after this.

_Will there be an “after”?_

The pain felt interminable. Crowley could hardly envision an end to it.

Perhaps this was all moot, perhaps this was all he would ever be, a white-hot pinprick of concentrated suffering. Perhaps he would never see the angel again.

Images of Aziraphale spiraled through his vision, punctuated by half-baked wonderings. 

_He’s safe, he would be safe, as long as I’m here, he’s safe._

_It was worth it, it will be worth it,_ Crowley chanted silently to himself, though his ability to convince himself was slipping away. All he wanted was for it all to stop. _Had it been worth it?_

Something bitter and biting inside him, laid bare by the unending pain, spoke. _Was it worth it?_ _And shouldn’t he know? What misery you’ve been buried under, to lighten his burdens?_

Hastur chose that moment to release Crowley, pulling the iron back and dropping it on the floor with an echoing clang. Crowley panted and sobbed, gasping his way back to himself as Hastur stood over him, seeming quite pleased.

Crowley could hardly spare any attention for the Duke, his head ringing with inner cries.

_It was worth it._

_He can’t know, can’t ever know._

_He’ll be safe._

“Well?” Ligur came around to stand beside Hastur, folding his arms as he looked down at Crowley. “Think he’s learned his lesson?”

“Better have,” Hastur grunted.

Ligur took a menacing step toward Crowley. All Crowley could do was watch as he grabbed Crowley’s shirt and pulled it back over his shoulder with a quick, brutal motion. Crowley screamed, the sound crackling through his raw throat, as the fabric jerked against the wound.

“Wouldn’t want you heading back all mussed up,” Ligur taunted. Crowley just glared up at him through a sweat-soaked lock of hair that had fallen into his face.

“As the French say,” Hastur said with a threatening glint in his eye, “Ore vore.”

Crowley didn’t even have time to roll his eyes at Hastur’s pronunciation before the Duke snapped his fingers.

***

Crowley found himself on the floor of his London flat. His chest radiated with pain and he could hardly catch his breath. But he was home, which was something.

Cursing, Crowley ripped off his ruined shirt and tossed it aside, hissing with the motion. He half stumbled, half crawled to his bed and fell into it, moaning.

The first order of business was to sleep this off, as much as a gash branded into his demonic essence could be slept off.

Then, Crowley resolved, he would find a way to end this all. To protect Aziraphale.

Even if that meant distance from the angel.

Even if that meant forcing a wedge between them, shattering The Arrangement.

He would cauterize his affection, burn it all away, if he had to. The thought filled him with more anguish than the sight of Hastur holding the hellfire brand. But if there was another way out, he certainly wouldn’t think of it now, his thoughts blurred by pain, his body begging for sleep.

At least when he was asleep, he couldn’t get any closer to the angel. Couldn’t put Aziraphale in harm’s way. If Hastur wanted to watch him sleep for the next few decades, he’d be welcome to.

Crowley sprawled in the blankets, trying to find a comfortable position for his burned shoulder. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of coiled ropes, and Hastur’s gravelly laugh, and Aziraphale smiling over a plateful of Parisian crepes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Heretic Pride" by The Mountain Goats:
> 
> _And I start laughing like a child  
>  As I mark their faces one by one  
> Transfiguration's going to come for me at last  
> And I will burn hotter than the sun_
> 
> _I waited so long  
>  And now I taste jasmine on my tongue  
> And I feel so proud to be alive  
> And I feel so proud when the reckoning arrives_


End file.
